We're Schwartz
by Phantom Sunstorm
Summary: Nagi rants about his "family" and his life. No plot...or purpose.
1. Default Chapter

I saw the inside of Takatori Hirofumi's downtown penthouse today and thought: what a shit hole.   
  
It was nothing compared to the luxurious accommodations Este's real estate and Crawford's generous checkbook provided us. Not that any of the Takatori's knew. Neither father or son (the latter had suddenly taken an interest in burrowing us from Takatori senior from time to time for odd jobs - mostly Schuldig took them and dragged Farfie along with him, the pay was handsome I hear.) had our home addresses or phone numbers. If they wanted us they had our cell phone numbers and access to Crawford's personal secretary. Sometimes I wondered if that annoyed Takatori.   
  
Probably.  
  
When we first came to Japan we actually had a floor in Takatori's office building to call home. The place was renovated to look like a normal set of apartments, but it was still pathetic. What kind of freak lived in an office building? Living was difficult then anyway. Crawford decided to try something different, he had us all live in our own housing units... completely separate from other people. I was only ten at the time and had my own three bedroom apartment.   
  
Needless to say, it was a huge waste of space.  
  
I think Crawford enjoyed it. Schuldig and Farfarello were never allowed in his personal apartment - if Crawford wanted sex from Schuldig it was done somewhere else, usually at a hotel in another part of town. Yes, they were a couple by then - but I was invited in several times. I was only ten after all, Crawford must have figured I needed some father-son interaction time.  
  
Whatever.   
  
We would sit in his perfect living room discussing school or missions over expresso and tea. Crawford's furniture was mostly glass with stainless steel stands, like his coffee table. He had a stiff leather couch and matching arm chairs and a large entertainment set to one side of the room that looked to be there more for decoration than use. Clever art hung from the walls, abstract splashes or neon blue and black paint that was picked to match the living room set, not bought because Crawford liked it.   
  
I never saw his bedroom, but I figured it looked about the same.  
  
His kitchen had a full dining set and was always well stocked with food he probably never ate. I say that because he either ate his meals out with us or with Mr. Takatori. The place was so clean, so perfect, so fake... so Crawford. His apartment was a showroom, it felt cold and emotionless. But that's how Crawford liked it.   
  
Schuldig's apartment was just the opposite. If Takatori didn't supply us with a cleaning staff, the place probably would have fallen apart. Literally. Half empty cans of soda and liquor and whatever lay on every available inch of floor and furniture space; liquid seeping into the walls, wood, and carpet. Rotting. Schuldig's room always rocked with loud music, sometimes so loud I had to roll over in my own bed and get on the phone to tell him to turn the damn metal down. Not that he was able to hear the phone over the roar most of the time.  
  
At one point a professional decorator must have come and arranged things for Schuldig. I pity whoever did. Not because of the state things degenerated to, but because I've seen Schuldig handle people like that. Schuldig would trail the staff around like a dotting mistress barking orders, changing his mind, wanting to be in charge of every action they took, often resorting to mind control. "No. No. No, the rug is suppose to be HERE, you're doing it all wrong!"  
  
Anyway, the point I was getting at is that Schuldig had a very nice apartment, he just trashed it. In his normal bad taste, Schuldig had chosen a orange (how he was able to find orange, I can only begin to ponder) leather couch with an unmatching olive green sitting chair and one of those oval seats with the back knitted together by some wooden material. I forget what they're called. He had a plentiful entertainment center, with the doors swung open and by the time we moved out, the doors ripped off from whatever rough housing Schuldig and Farfarello or Schuldig and a random sexual partner engaged in around that area. Video games, videos, mostly porno, and CDs carpeted the wooden floor. There was a plant on top of the television set, it lived for several years, how, I don't know.   
  
Schuldig talked to that plant, when he felt like being weird and schizophrenic.  
  
His two bathrooms were just gross. Let's leave it at that. I've seen public restrooms that hobos have taken residence in more sanitary than Schuldig's bathroom. The kitchen was in a similar state. And I, fearing my virginity, never made an effort to see his bedroom.   
  
Farfarello spent most of his time in Schuldig's apartment. If he wasn't there, he was either locked up in his cell, or in the lounge area. I had him over to my place a few times when I was feeling desperately lonely, but Crawford disapproved of us being alone together, despite the fact that if he tried anything, I could easily dispose of him. Crawford could be fatherly like that.   
  
The reason Farf wandered so much is because all he had was a cell. Farfarello's lair was dressed and secure enough to fit into a Hannibal Lector movie. His "apartment" was at the end of the hall, sealed off by a thick metal door that required a keycard to gain entrance in. There two of Takatori's armed goons stood watch inside where they were separated from Farfarello by another thick metal wall. Farfarello's time spent in there was with his straight jacket in the dark.   
  
The room was fully padded, no bed or blankets or bathroom... because he could hurt himself on any of those things. The only lights was a single neon pane built into the ceiling too high up for him to reach and break if he tried, and the only access to that light was from the outside. Farfarello said he preferred the lights to be out. He said everything was too sterile and sickening if he had to look at it.  
  
He was taken out periodically for bathroom breaks and meals.   
  
Don't think we were totally inhuman. If Schuldig was around and in the mood, which isn't as rare as you would think, Farf would be out and hanging with him. Even Crawford released him, drugged him, and let the madman accompany him to his office on the next floor. As long as Farfarello behaved. And I... I let him play video games with me.  
  
This was, of course, before we discovered Geodon.  
  
My apartment was pathetic. Of course I had it outfitted with everything I needed, but I never really decorated. It was just... too much space for a ten-year-old coming from the street who didn't know what it was like to have a real house anyway. I kept it clean though, obsessively clean. This was my place, my stuff, I took pride it in. But it was always lonely.   
  
Too much space I concluded later when we resumed living in one house. I found I liked clutter. It made me feel safe.   
  
Those days I would wake up, make my bed, meet Schuldig or Crawford for breakfast, get today's schedule, head off to school if I had to, or return to my empty apartment. There I had a computer designated just to play MP3's through the house, never as loud as Schuldig's and with a better music selection. I needed to noise. I would spend whatever time I had working on mission stuff or surfing the internet. If I felt energetic, I'd move from my computer room (I had three bedrooms, one just had a bed, one was empty, and one had a computer and TV) to the living room and would play video games.   
  
My kitchen was never stocked.  
  
I don't think anyone noticed how underweight or depressed I was until we moved to the penthouse and I began to get better.   
  
I think everyone did better after that. Schuldig partied less, Farfie didn't need to be locked up as often, and Crawford opened up a little. When Crawford approached Takatori and told him our current living conditions, although satisfactory, were no longer acceptable, we had ceased to be a working unit and a... dare say, family?  
  
Of course Takatori was mad that we would reject the lavish cell house he had put us in, that we were almost going against him with the proposition, that his control over us (we all knew and accepted the fact that he had several security cameras put in every room of our apartments) was weakened, and especially pissed because Crawford would not tell him where we were moving.  
  
"He'll report us to Este." I murmured after the meeting.   
  
Crawford gazed at me sidewise, I couldn't see his eyes because the overhead light had caught his glasses in that inhuman glint and created a glare around them. "Este has already approved of the request and has found the other living unit themselves."  
  
Takatori's mad, I thought. I still feared the boss.   
  
And Schuldig, brash Schuldig, put things in prospective. He smiled and shook his wild red-orange hair. "We're Schwartz. Fuck Takatori."  
  
*  
  
Our new apartment required a keycard and five digit access code to get to the special floor. The other residents recognized us by now and let us have the elevators to ourselves. "I'll wait for the next one." They would say.  
  
I would smile.  
  
Crawford had bought the last three floors of the complex. Floor 27 and 28 was where we lived in a two-story housing unit. Access to the 28th floor from the elevator had been sealed off. Floor 29 had a large gym and pool, which Crawford converted into a training center for all of us. Our special 'galaxy room' was also on Floor 29. We also had exclusive access to the roof, where Schuldig hung out to smoke, and Farfarello wandered to contemplate... whatever.   
  
If you think this is lavish then you have no idea what Takatori plus Este was bribing us to hold our alliance. We were the strongest psychic force on the payroll. The money we pulled in from Crawford's stock games and Schuldig's drug ventures helped too.   
  
I ignorance my reflection in the brass elevator doors. The floor pulled up around me, the numbers overhead quickly rising until it paused on Floor 20. I took out my card slipped it in the special knob and entered the access code. The car pulled smoothly upwards again. I couldn't hear Schuldig's rock through the sealed doors by the time it landed on our level and figured Crawford must have been home.   
  
The elevator opened with a hiss and I stepped through. We didn't really have a front door, as the precautions taken by the elevator was enough. Instead we had a floor to ceiling glass square block that merged into two double doors with large steel handles that separated the small two yard walk from the elevator to the main apartment. Enclosed in the glass area was a simple sitting area, nicely decorated but not homely. It reminded me of the waiting lobby at a dentist office, complete with large pots of frilly green plants wedged into each glass corner.   
  
If Crawford was to have a meeting it would probably be in this sitting room.   
  
I slide through the glass unit and opened the heavy brass door that barred the way to the rest of the suite. My shoes came off there and were placed into the little open air cubby hole Crawford had built into the wall right next to the door, on the wall that adjourned the kitchen. Our kitchen was still pathetic, but I'll rant about that later.  
  
To my left was the living room, a large loosely furnished space that sat behind the informal dining room. The wall to ceiling curtains were closed, the only source of light was the glow of the television. Someone, their heads hidden behind the couch, was engaged in a deadly Pokemon Stadium tournament and it was easy to see who was winning.   
  
"FUCK YOU, PIKACHU!!!" A German accent spat suddenly.   
  
I padded into the living room just in time to see the smirk curl around Farfarello's face as he lazily entered in another attack. Both assassins were on the floor, death grip on the N64 controls, battling as if their lives depended on it. Well, that's how Schuldig looked anyway. It took a lot to phase Farfarello's normally calm face and a damn Pokemon game was certainly not going to do it.  
  
My mind suddenly flashed back to last night, on some roof top in the rain, facing off with Weiss. I recalled the look of horror on Siberian and Bombay's faces as Farfarello and Schuldig materialized behind me. A gap of uncontrolled inhuman terror that they were unable to school even as the fight came to an end and the three of us wisped off into the night.   
  
Schuldig's Snorlax took a hit and dissolved back into its Pokeball. Schuldig crashed forward and began mock sobbing in rage.   
  
I wonder what Weiss would think of the Almighty Schwartz if they saw us right now...  
  
Farfarello looked at me and in his soft, pleased voice said, "I won."  
  
Schuldig launched forward and began to strangle him. I left them at that and retreated into the kitchen to see if we had anything to eat. It was Thursday, which meant Miho wouldn't be coming back to the apartment until Saturday, she usually stocked up on snackies before she left for the weekend.   
  
Miho was our house cleaner, she worked from nine to one every day but Friday and Sunday. Sunday for obvious reasons, Friday because the thirty something Korean woman left on Thursday nights to spend time with her family in Osaka or something.   
  
I think Crawford got off on hiring disadvantage foreigners to clean our house. When we lived in New York City our cleaning lady was named Lupe and she was Cuban. In Germany it was a polish woman named Helga.   
  
"Ah." Super Gooey Deluxe Coco Cookies, I pulled the box out of the shelf and took it with me to my room. I caught Farfarello frothing at the mouth from the death grip Schuldig had on him but didn't want to get involved.   
  
It was Thursday, which meant I had one more day of school and one more day free from Crawford's awful training. Recently my abilities have experienced a freaky power boost, Crawford attributes it to the healthy eating - something about food and energy... I guess that makes sense, after a nasty bout of self mutilation Farfarello tends to gorge himself on mint ice cream and scrambled eggs. Gas for the machine? Anyway, whatever the case, my powers were now more or less out of control.   
  
I like to think of those cheesy martial arts cartoons where they train with hundred pound weights tied to their wrists and ankles in those lame gravity rooms. Then, when they're free they find themselves using more muscle than they need to do to, say, open the door.   
  
Explosion.  
  
That's kind of what's been happening to me. One night on a mission I was suppose to lift some bodyguards and keep them out of the way for a couple of minutes while Schuldig took care of the target. All the bones in their spine broke and their skin kinda liquefied. Completely an accident. Not that it mattered that they were dead. But Crawford decided I needed some lessons in control.  
  
Six hours a night up in the gym floating eggs around. Oh the joy. Oh the humiliation. By the end of the night I'm covered in yoke and pissed off, screaming I can't do this. It's not fair. This kind of stuff used to be easy.  
  
Since my hands were full when I came to my bedroom I used my telekinesis to shut the door. Or tried to. As I mentioned before, our apartment is multi-leveled and I have the second floor/mock-attic to myself. My bedroom door splintered at the hinges and flipped halfway down the stairs before becoming wedged in the narrow corridor at a weird angle.  
  
"...oops."   
  
"DAMN IT, NAGI!!!" Schuldig's disembodied voice screamed.   
  
Yeah, like I'm such a maladjusted, angst ridden, PSM-ing teenager that I'd target my rage on my friggen' bedroom door and do that on purpose. I stared down from the top of the stairs at my two teammates who suddenly appeared at the foot and asked, "Can you fix that?"  
  
I had every video game known to man, I seriously did. My collection of MP3's probably made up 75% of Napsters, Kazaa, and Imeshs share library. And I had a healthy collection of wide screen TV's to drown out my silence-phobia. Since I don't have any nasty drug or sex habits to burn my money on like Schuldig, or any stock investments to monopolize like Crawford, I spent all my considerable earnings on electronics. The latest in computer technology, up-to-the-minute SIMs add-on disks, water proof Game Boy Advance for the bath tubs in all seven rainbow colors. Electric Magic Cards.  
  
Schuldig screamed something about so help me, if this door wasn't blocking my way, I'd come up there, and blah, blah, blah. I guess Farf grabbed him because he suddenly broke from that rant to tell the psychopath to leave him the fuck alone.   
  
Uh-huh.  
  
As I said, I hate silence. Silence-phobia, Schu calls it. I need noise, so as soon as I came into my room the CD player, the computer, and two TVs came on. I didn't use my powers of course. Crawford bought the house... and the door... I bought the other stuff.   
  
See the difference?  
  
Farfarello somehow managed to crawl up the splintered door slope and slipped into my room. I could hear Schuldig not so far behind, but... wait. Never mind. Judging by the curse and the odd thumping sound, I guess he slipped on the door, still wedged in the stairs, and was back on the first level. Hopefully with a concussion.  
  
"Super Gooey Deluxe Coco Cookie?" I offered the serial killer.   
  
He shook his head and grabbed one of my many, many remote controls. A moment later he was plugged into Everquest on-line searching for his internet buddies. I shrugged and took to my computer, ready to waste the rest of the afternoon answering e-mails and blowing up chat rooms.  
  
Maybe I'd meet Bombay on AOL and wipe his hard drive. That's how hackers entertain themselves when on-line porno gets boring.   
  
13 new messages.   
  
"So," I ask the white haired one, "going to kill any priests this weekend?"  
  
Farfarello's brow was knit together in that serious concerned way his face gets only when he has to perform a task in a mission more evolved than mindless killing, or he's working his way through a role play. "We'll see." He answered lightly.  
  
Berserker isn't as volatile about the whole religion as most people give him credit for. The whole kill/hurt god thing? That's just a rouse to creep people out. Yeah, Farfie likes to see them squirm, and if they're dense enough not to read the predatory DON'T MESS WITH ME aura he emits naturally -- if they're so fucking stupid that they can't read the I AM A NUT CASE glow that is Farf at first glance -- well, randomly spouting "your death will hurt God. Cheese hurts God. Telly Tubbies makes God cry." pretty much finishes off any looming assumptions.   
  
Really, He's only crazy when we don't give him his meds. Or something stupid like that whole Ruth thing sets him off. Then he's totally and completely off-the wall, la la land, ballistic. Have you ever seen a schizophrenic in action?   
  
Lucky you.   
  
Schuldig finally made it upstairs, almost foaming at the mouth. "Do you know how much this is going to cost?" He asked with an evil finger jab at the ragged door frame.   
  
When did he get all Crawford-isque? He can be weird like that sometimes. Like we should ever care about money.   
  
"It doesn't matter." I answered, I'm pleased at how deadpanned and dismissing my voice sounds. "We're Schwartz."  
*  
Dinner comes to us at exactly 7:30 ever night unless Crawford tells the catering service otherwise. It's nice to have a routine. I left Farf alone in my room asleep on the floor with his Everquest game still on and CD player blasting Anti-Christ Superstar at full volume into his headphones.  
  
I'm glad our current living arrangement allows him to be out of his cell more often.  
  
"I don't think Crawford's coming home tonight." Schuldig informed my reflection. The German was plastered in front of his three paned full body mirror agonizing over which slut outfit he was going to wear clubbing tonight.  
  
Guess Takatori was having another one of those all nighters. I pictured them as the kind of gym lock downs they have at our high school. A whole bunch of businessmen, still in their monkey suits, drinking coffee, painting each others toe nails, and giggling about which Airline Company stock they liked. Fit Crawford into that and you'd have an image that would put Abyssinian in a friggin' coma right along with his brain dead sister.  
  
Schuldig snickered. "You'll watch Farfie, ya?"   
  
"Sure." Like I cared, if the psycho got annoying I could send him to his bedroom, if he got cut happy I'd throw him in his cell.   
  
If you didn't think Crawford was fucking Schuldig before then you'd be left without a shadow of a doubt once you saw what kind of pimped out joint he had custom framed just for his German slut. Schuldig's room was actually another apartment crammed into the side of the wall. Artfully done, of course, but still crammed.  
  
Upon entering you would either be struck by the not so mini mini-bar, or maybe the oak decked Jacuzzi sitting on the elevated plateform that bordered the floor to ceiling glass wall. Schuldig had a waterbed and it was round. His closet was the size of most Tokyo apartments and if he wanted to, he could have opened up his bathroom as a private bathhouse, it was so fancy.  
  
"Jealous?" The psychic purred, I guess he settled on what he wanted because he threw the other three outfits he was holding on the floor and began to strip. Schuldig had no inhibitions. He walked around his bedroom naked and, because his floor to ceiling windows had no curtains, offered a constant peep show to the two other apartment complexes that faced us.   
  
"I want a Jacuzzi." I mumbled.  
  
Schuldig pulled his zipper up. "Ya willing to sleep with a rich wrinkly bazillionire like Takatori?"  
  
If the words weren't bad enough I was suddenly bombarded with a series of mental images that would have sent Howard Stern running screaming to a monastery for penance.   
  
SANCTUARY!!!  
  
I frowned. "...I must go to the kitchen and claw my eyes out with an ice cream scoop now." Gag, just... gag. I crossed my arms. "That's how Farfie lost his eye, isn't it? Your perversion drove him to madness, didn't it?"  
  
"What if I said Farfie had a Pope John Paul fetish?"   
  
Lord give me strength. Schuldig giggled.  
  
I had no choice but to storm out of the attachment apartment. "While I'm at it, I think I'll dig my ear drums out with chopsticks!" I screamed behind me.   
  
I know what you're thinking. Naoe Nagi screaming? Raising his voice above a dull whisper? Well get over it, I'm human and I'm at home with my family and I don't have to put up any fronts for anyone while I'm here.   
  
"Don't call us FAMILY!!!" Schuldig crowed. "You make me feel OLD!!"  
  
Whatever. 


	2. Do you accept Visa?

We last left the Nagi Family Soap Opera Sitcom with a homicidal telekinetic ready to maim himself just to purge his innocent and bewildered mind from the horrible, horrible, horrible images the bastard Schuldig had planted into them. Recap: Nagi. Handcuffs. Takatori.   
  
I think this is justification for honorable suicide, wouldn't you agree?  
  
Ugh.  
  
Just when I was getting that off my mind, Schuldig made a comment about Farfarello's God fetish and its relation to the Pope. I thought wrinkles: wrinkles like prunes shriveling into raisins; wrinkles like Takatori's grandmother with a chin that sagged to where her breasts should be and breasts that sagged to where her knees should be and knees... well, let's just say I didn't know knees could sag until I met that old fossil.   
  
Stupid Farfarello, I thought. Its all his fault. And it was easier to blame him then to go after Schuldig. One, because Schuldig knew when you were angsting over him and could use it against you; two, because Farfarello was an easy target. He grin and bared most of the abuse we heaped on him.  
  
In fact, I think he liked it.  
  
And bang, sharp corner around the hall and I'm suddenly nose to chest with the before mentioned psychopath. Farfarello had been coming from the kitchen, probably heard me scream at Schuldig and wanted to investigate.   
  
He stared down at me with that gold raptor eye, that gaze that sent a dozen other assassins whimpering to their deaths because they were too frozen with fear to dodge him and his impressive collection of sharp pointy objects. That gaze that had bathed in blood and lapped it up laughing a dozen times over. That gaze that looked into the depths of hell's nine levels and... Well, you get the picture.  
  
He might have been a little more intimidating if he didn't have a whip cream can shoved in his mouth like a baby bottle.   
  
"Farf." I snapped, I had to keep from flinching at the tone. Cracked voice, damn puberty. Whatever. I snapped the can away from him and wagged my finger. "That's gross."   
  
His head tilted to the side as his mind tried to process what I was telling him. "No it's not. It taste good. Here. Try." He took the can back and held the nozzle close to my mouth, I batted his hands away.   
  
"No, now it has Farfie Germs. What have I told you about licking things you're suppose to share?"  
  
  
  
"Yah, Farfie. You don't want to give us all AIDs, right?" Schuldig glided by hand settling on both our heads to give us a nice playful pat. For a split second my face and Farfarello's mimed twin expressions of grimaces.   
  
"Liar." Farfarello snorted, looking dejected. "You're the diseased one. I'm just crazy."   
  
Schuldig pulled a compact from his jeans - yes, Schuldig wore make-up, quite a lot of it. He just wore it in a way that you couldn't tell. Facial enhancement or something - and checked his hair. "Hah, with all that blood of the innocent guzzling I'd think you would have caught *something* by now, crucifix boy. And don't call me diseased, I'm very selective about who I rape."  
  
In response, Farfarello tilted his head back, loaded his mouth with whipped cream, let it swish around in his cheeks for awhile, and stuck his tongue out at Schuldig. The German laughed and I began ranting at both of them like the bitch mother hen I was - when Crawford wasn't home to do it himself.   
  
"And what a good bitch you make." Schuldig cooed. He reached forward to pinch my cheeks but pulled back when he caught the image of me sending his sexy dolled up telepathic ass soaring into the night from the living room window... right into heavy traffic.   
  
It was nice to know he still had some instincts of self-preservation... the threat wouldn't have worked on Farf.   
  
I got the cool brush off from the red haired snot. "Yeah, well, whatever, darling." He tried to throw the power of retreat into his hands. "I don't have time for this. I have places to go, people to fuck. You know how it is when you're just so god damn sexy and in high demand." He blinked. "Oh, I guess you wouldn't."   
  
"Give my regards to your pimp." Was my flat reply.  
  
Farfarello swallowed another mouthful of foamy sugar. "Don't get AIDs."   
  
He gave us a murderous glare and flipped us off as he waltzed out the lobby door. To anyone watching it would look like we parted on an unfriendly note. Mentally we were all laughing.   
  
*  
  
My assassin instincts kicked in without warning. Behind me the lights flickered and a few plates rattled in the kitchen, my heart leapt a beat in warning and I had to pause from my task to take a few deep calming breaths. It's okay, I can kill this guy. I just can't splatter him. That would be loud and messy and Crawford would make me pay the cleaning bill.   
  
Thank god we were on the phone and not standing face-to-face or Farfarello might have a new play thing.   
  
"What do you mean," I hissed into the receiver, "you don't accept MasterCard?"  
  
"I'm sorry sir," sighed the voice on the line, I could hear his patience waning. Well too damn bad. "we've had too many bounced and bogus accounts before. Credit cards aren't accepted if the price is over 58,500 yen."  
  
Sitting Indian style on the kitchen table, Farfarello reached up and plucked the floating candle holder from the air.   
  
I took another deep breath. "What do you accept then? Cold hard cash? That can be arranged. I can arrange that. It'd be laced with heroine and the bills would probably be marked, but hey, when you're carrying that much paper on you, you can't expect the money to be clean. What STUPID FUCK would spend that much money with anything but a credit card?"   
  
Mr. Stupid Fuck didn't bother to answer. The line went dead and I began to hyperventilate. Must not kill. Must not kill. Must not... I stared at the phone book, scribbled down the address, and handed it to my one eyed teammate.   
  
  
  
"You have my permission to hunt everyone at this address down. You have my permission to kill their mother. Kill their baby sister. Kill their dog..."  
  
Farfarello giggled with manic glee.  
  
If Crawford were home I'd push redial and hand over the phone to him. Fearless leader would get a hold of the manager and would make sure the annoy twit would never be able to work in Tokyo again.   
  
Calm, Nagi. Calm.  
  
I put my finger on the phone book and ran down to the next listing.   
  
"Tsushiro's Take-out Okinomiyaki, how can I help you?"  
  
*  
  
"Lyssophobia." Farfarello said in-between a mouth of bean curd.  
  
We were in Schuldig's room, 60,400 yenni worth of food spread around the carpet, the bed, the Jacuzzi planks. I sat facing the impressive television set, laptop glowing at my feet, weighed down by three bowls of various food stuffs. Farfarello laid half under the mattress frame, half across the carpet, picking at the tofu in his miso. We were watching some Spanish soap opera on the satellite.  
  
"What?"   
  
"Lyssophobia. An intense, morbid fear of insanity."   
  
Farfarello was full of very useful information.   
  
When I didn't respond, the madman frowned, his already thick lips spilling out slightly into an almost comedic pucker. I felt like rolling my eyes, but in his distraught mood that might prompt Farfarello to screech his Xena war cry and lunge at me. Then I would be forced to lock him up and be without company for the rest of the night.   
  
Alone if you don't count the constant Instant Messages from ::Bombay:: screaming - WHO R U? as I plucked and rearranged the files in his hard drive. Vigilant fucker, most sensible people would have just shut their computer off by now or cut the internet connect - not that that would have saved them from any virus I could have planted, but it would have cut me from their sever - but no, Bombay was bloated with hackers pride and was trying to fix the problem with skills that when compared to mine were limited. Very limited.  
  
_-Nyght_Chyld-_ : I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U.   
  
Ì Ç Ù. Ì Ç Ù. Ì Ç Ù. Ì Ç Ù. Ì Ç Ù. Ì Ç Ù. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. Ï C Ü. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U. I C U.   
  
Etc. See, when your a super cool hacker like me you have to talk in computer ebonics and leave lots of annoying, repeated one lined messages to psyche out your prey. Kinda like Farfarello and how he launches into Bible verses when he's slaughtering people. And Alt Codes. You have to use lots of Alt Codes. It makes you look cool.  
  
Bombay tried to counteract with a oh-so-clever firewall called, and I'm not joking, "Bomb-bay". Its so stupid I began snicker out loud and got a golden eye roll from my Irish companion. I guess he doesn't appreciate the hacker humor.  
  
::Bombay:: : MESS WITH THE BEST. DIE LIKE THE REST.  
  
"Tch." I muttered. Cliché. How did this guy become an assassin again? Oh, right. He's a Takatori.   
  
My own software protection batted away the echo-virus he sent out at the same time my main programs dug into his computer's kernel. I responded to his last instant message by opening up his MP3 player, scrolling down the playlist and selecting a song that's lyrics started with "you ain't never gonna get it."  
  
And suddenly Tsukiyono Omi, better known as the annoying Bombay, was off-line.   
  
  
  
Aw. Guess his widdle system crashed.  
  
I hate people who get things because their daddy's rich or famous.   
  
I had to work to become who I am.  
  
*  
  
The next morning greets me with the sting of sunlight, a Code Red Mountain Dew hangover, and Crawford leaning over me, hand on my shoulder. Fearless leader fades in and out of my vision as I blink away the sleepiness. Before I can scream rape or at least 'where the hell am I?' I remember that I'm camped out in Schuldig's slut pad and forgot to give Farfarello his midnight medication. My last waking memory was choosing to download one more sailor moon episode off Kaaza before crashing on the floor in a catatonic slumber.  
  
Crawford said something but I missed it, so I mumble an irritated "What?" And got a pissy arch of the Oracle's perfect American eyebrow in response.   
  
Obviously he was expecting a reply from the well-groomed and subdued Naoe Nagi (assassin extraordinaire) that paraded around in the outside world like a sheet of angst throbbing black ice. Well... tough, Crawford, I don't have to act like that here.  
  
As if he was the group's telepath, Crawford sighed and repeated his question, "I said, am I going to have to get you two a babysitter?"   
  
I sit up and cringe as two or three empty candy bar wrappers slide off my chest. My laptop is still on, glowing blue with some weird German music playing. That's what happens when you have one playlist and it has more than two thousand songs. Its like the Energizer Bunny (keeps going and going).   
  
I stared at the screen and winced; Chicken Bone. The lame songs are always on the bottom of the list.   
  
Interestingly enough the room isn't splattered with carnage... or any remnants of Farfarello raging at his lack of medication and customary straight jacket. On the contrary, I find the spiky haired freak still snoozing a few feet from me hands wrapped around play station control, small smile on his face. The television's still on, of course, a large GAME OVER logo filling the scream.  
  
...Devil May Cry 2. Nice choice.  
  
See, we're very rich assassin teenagers that aren't allowed to leave the house very often. We have a lot of time on our hands. Time equals boredom. Boredom equals obsession. Obsession plus teenager often equals either A) building bombs in the basement B) an unhealthy attraction to animal porn or C) video games.   
  
Not like I need to justify myself.   
  
Or my screwed-up family.  
  
Crawford practically picked up Farfarello and rattled him awake, earning a dozy, startled grunt from the Irishman followed by a muffled sentence that sounded Gaelic to me. He instinctively wraps a arm around Crawford's shoulder and allowed the Oracle to all but drag him out the door.  
  
"Farfarello is taking a shower," Fearless leader elaborates. "I suggest you do the same. Eat some breakfast and clean up this mess. Schuldig shall be staggering home high and hung-over in a few hours and won't be happy to see what you two did to his bedroom."  
  
Yeah. It's okay if the mess is his. But if anyone screws up his stuff... Whatever. "Okay." I say out loud.  
  
"Nagi, tonight we're attending a banquet with Mr. Takatori. As you are in the same age category as Ouka, I expect you'll be there to entertain her. Weiss will also be there, I may need you to thwart them. Being as that is, you have to be in top shape by tonight. That means eat something healthy for breakfast and lunch, not Twinkies and soda."  
  
Bwah?   
  
But Crawford, don't you know a Twinkie contains three of the seven food groups? Out loud I say, "Okay."   
  
"And Nagi..."  
  
I buried the urge to twitch.  
  
"...I've already arranged to have the door repaired and taken the expense out of your bank account. You'll find a receipt on the kitchen table."  
  
My fist clenched and I reminded myself that no, Nagi, you cannot use the Hand of Death (tm) on Crawford. The bastard didn't even grace me with a smirk for his evil efficientness and exited the suite. I sank onto Schuldig's water bed, face set into a lovely frown. I remained there until Schuldig came back.  
  
Crawford was right to describe his return as "staggering."  
  
The flamboyant redhead collapsed against his doorframe, nostrils flaring reactionary at the mess that laid before him. Before he could launch into a bitch rant however, I offered a truce.   
  
Before I expand on what I said, I'd like it to be noted that a dark cloud of sullenness had graced half the city flooding the room with in eerily white light and gray shadows. The texture fell perfectly across my face, accenting it like Crawford's glasses did when they randomly glowed.   
  
"Want to blow up Balinese car?"  
  
Evil glint.   
  
(...trademark)  
  
*  
  
See, blowing up somebody's car, especially a rare, custom made, expensive car, was probably one of the nicest and least harmful acts in the criminal world. Barring that the somebody whose car was being blown up wasn't in it at the time. That being the case the vehicles demolition sent out a clean and simple message. "I am annoyed."  
  
Funny how leaving a decapitated horse's head at the foot of somebody's bed meant "I am pissed off." and blowing up their car meant "I am annoyed." I'm sure there was a less extreme way to convey this message in flower language. But we're Schwartz.  
  
We leave that girly stuff to Weiss.  
  
Schuldig and I all but skipped into the partial dinning room with big radiant smiles of promised destruction on our face. Crawford regarded us from the dining room table over the brim of his newspaper and snorted softly. "If you must do this during broad daylight, take these."  
  
One elegant, manicured hand swept forward to gesture to the unopened package of ski masks that laid waiting in front of him and I felt the urge to scream and bring out the... you know... Hand of Death. Trademark.   
  
Schuldig smirked.  
  
He draped himself over the table and attempted to look sexy. "Why, thank you, my lover. Would you also have made us a car bomb by any chance?"   
  
"No," He replied easily, "but I have called Schrient to testify as an alibi for your whereabouts if needed. Avoid the highway on your way back and for god sakes, where something less conspicuous than that tacky green blazer."  
  
The tacky green blazer was an old worn out argument, the kind that became less annoying and less important with time. Instead of exploding like he might have if say, Takatori, or worse, Siberian or Abyssinian, had insulted him, Schuldig broke out into a dry chuckle. "Crawford." He purred. "You're so thoughtful."  
  
He took the mask bag.  
  
"All set, Naggley?"  
  
I held up my video camera, always ready to capture the magic. "Roger that."  
  
Why Balinese? Because I wanted to destroy something beautiful.  
  
Insert shameless Fight Club reference here. 


End file.
